Page 178 of Those Who Are Bound

Which was why this moment was like a prayer being answered, because he’d fucking prayed.

Together, they got her under the sheets. “What do you want to wear? Do you need your boot?” he asked as she pulled the towel out and handed it to him. She’d been so smooth that he hadn’t gotten a glimpse of skin. Of course, he’d seen plenty in the bathroom. And every curve, scar, and freckle she had was seared on his brain.

Memorized.

He’d never imagined there would be a time he wouldn’t be able to touch her, look at her. He’d taken his time with her for granted, making assumptions about their relationship; their future. How had he misread her so completely?

She was shaking her head as she answered, bringing him back to the moment. “Nothing. I could use one of my painkillers.”

“Elliott, you’re cold.” He eyed the bedside table and the single prescription bottle. He shook out a pill, handed it to her with a possibly day-old glass of water, and returned it when she was finished.

Scooting farther under her blankets, she looked up at him. There was a hesitant hopefulness there. “Will you lie down with me?”

He could only stare back. Weeks of silence, and now she was inviting him into the bed with her? Where she was naked. Did he want to join her and wrap his arms around her again? Hell yes. Was it smart? Fuck no. For so many reasons, the main one being his cock and his head were not on the same page.

Shaking his head, he answered, “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Just to warm me up. Until I fall asleep. The med knocks me out,” she said quietly, peering up at him. It was an innocent look, a plea. Well, it would have been innocent if not for what he’d seen in the bathroom; heard the intake of breath when he’d picked her up.

“I’ll get you another blanket.”

“Jonah…” she chided.

He leaned over, bracing his hands on the bed. “Do you understand my hesitation? My confusion, here?”

She teared up, and she nodded. “It wasn’t meant to hurt you.”

He tilted his head slightly, giving it a half shake. “I’m pretty hurt. You had to know your actions caused harm.”

She reached out of the blankets and patted the covers. “Please. Let me talk to you.”

“You can talk to me while I sit over there.” He indicated her chair in the corner.

“I want you here.”

He looked over the bed, over her, before meeting her gaze. “I want to be there, too. I’ve wanted to be there. But you haven’t wanted me there for weeks.”

“I mean to talk.” But her cheeks reddened.

The emotions that were bouncing around the room, the electricity, the tension; he wasn’t alone in it. There was comfort in that. It should have also made him more determined to seek refuge in the corner, but instead, he found himself toeing off his tennis shoes. Listening to the wrong head. Answering the siren call of her hypnotic, silver eyes. Falling victim to a foolish, optimistic heart.

The thought in the back of his head: he normally wore boots, and he usually rode his bike in the summer. Today, it was the Jeep and tennis shoes. Easier to get to her, easier to undress. Coincidence?

“I’m staying on top.” His statement was meant to be informative, not provocative. However, he didn’t miss another quick glance of amusement from her.

Joining her, he did relent—he told himself he relented, but there wasn’t really a battle—and drew her into his arms. She snuggled against him, similar to their last morning together. Except he was clothed. And there were bedclothes between them.

And they weren’t together. She wasn’t his girlfriend. He had to keep reminding himself of that fact, drive that painful point home to keep from getting araginghard-on.

Well, she had him where she wanted him, so now he was going to get his answers. “What happened?”

She answered, “I was sort of lost in a daydream, and I lost my footing. Or, I guess I stepped wrong, and stepped on my bad leg, and I fell, cutting myself. Could I have crawled out on my own? Probably. But I panicked, and there was so much blood…”

Jonah kissed the top of her head, soothing her after the fact, smiling into her hair. It wasn’t the question he’d asked, but it did answer the question of why she’d called. Elliott wasn’t a crier; she was her daddy’s little soldier who laughed when she fell and got back up. So, she must have been pretty shaken—obviously—to have called for help.

Calledhim, as she’d pointed out.

He pointed out, though, “That wasn’t what I meant.”

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